Waiting Hurts.

Before I begin, I just want to warn you of hyperbolic language.

Waiting has got to be one of the dullest activities on the planet.

Waiting wouldn’t be as bad if I was at home, with a television or less people surrounding me. But, there are twelve other people in this room that I am in, yet none of them are here for me.

I am sat in college, with a room full of college employees, rather than college students, who are doing their own thing. Of course, I am not in my lesson. Not because I don’t want to be in there. I want to be able to go to my lesson and have a lovely teaching session, and be taught something that will benefit me for these God awful exams I have in the next two months. However, I would be waiting in my classroom, just as much as I am waiting here, for the disastrous teacher to get his words out. Even when he does get his words out, they are more disastrous than the waiting game.

I take back my initial statement. My “teacher’s” “teaching” is the dullest activity on the planet. It is also the biggest waste of time. It is also so horrifically suicide-inducing.

Of course, I have not been in the classroom for many weeks – six or seven teaching weeks – but I am still so positively scarred from the stress. But, I am sitting up up up and away from his teaching, waiting for work that he “sets” for me (which is so bad it hurts; it is does not inform me of what I have to do; it does not educate me in the slightest; it does not entertain me: that one does not need any explanation).

Oh wow, as I was writing this someone came to give me a wad of paper that they call “revision”, or “work”, or, as I call it, “two hundred pages of shit just waiting to wrap themselves around my tonsils until they snap”.

Here is a huge great teeth-puller of a task that I am going to share with you:

‘Considering different forms of text and how they convey meaning –  A poem, an article, a blog, a short story, a novel extract etc.’

That is just the first part of the question, which I would like to vent about, if I may. I am a CREATIVE WRITING A -Level student. I do not need to be told that “a poem” is a “form of text”. I also do not need to be told that they “convey meaning”. That is just like telling a dog that they shit in the street.

Here is the next part:

‘Mind-map all the broader differences you can think of, then narrow it down.’

Oh. My. God. You know what, a CREATIVE WRITING A-LEVEL STUDENT cannot know that an article is different to a novel extract. “Excuse me, I appear to have mixed you up with a monkey, or a ginormous transformer, as you must have transformed into an unbelievably irritating cough.” *Cough cough*.

I do not understand how I, and the rest of my class, can be degraded so much. It hurts my conscience, a tad. I feel like I have “the insane kid” scribbled across my forehead, in his callous handwriting to go with his callous speech.

I honestly feel completely useless when I am given this work. He evidently has no idea what our exam is going to be like, otherwise he would actually give us work that is the same as our exam.

Just a brief overview of the exam: We are given five sources of texts in different forms – they could be prose fiction, prose non-fiction, poetry or script. Then, we pick one source and write our own creative piece influenced on one specific theme from the text. The exam gives you the theme. Then, you write a commentary on your piece; why you did the things you did based on your text etc. etc.

And now, refer back to the task that I was given. Is it at all similar to the exam? I was also given six thousand ‘texts’ that are just photocopies of random parts of poems or prose, and just says “write a piece using one text”. OK oK OK oK. That is not going to work.

If you do not understand most of what I have just said, I apologise. I feel very mentally frustrated due to this ridiculous course that I am on. I am sure that, anywhere else – any other college – this would not be happening. And of course it is going to be this bad here. It is typical.

Thanks for being my the audience to my muse.

ps there are now eleven people in the room with me. People are sinking into the quick sand here.


Once Upon a Time … we were respected.

A lot has been going on, said the stressed and distressed and oppressed A-level student.

I have been sailing around the ocean on my tiny little ice cube. I feel cold in a sea of angst. But why? I hear you cry. Of course you’re crying, you’re speaking to a girl who cannot keep one hand on her shoulder, let alone expectations to get a thousand phenomenal marks on her intelligence scale.

On this scale, the only number that I can see is the number 5. The middle. On a scale from one to ten. On a scale of one to one hundred? The number is 50. Even though I am an average human, according to statistics and the deception of the exam boards, I wish there was another way to prove intelligence.

I don’t know how intelligent I, or anyone else is. I could speculate that we are all clever little molecules floating around in mid air. But how could I prove that? The only way that the universe has found to measure how clever we are is by testing us. And not a sweet-little-quiz-type-primaryschool-bonanza. But a take-my-own-life-by-shovelling-my-head-into-a-bucket-of-mud-catastrophe.

For the final time, even if this was the official final time I had to be tested, it would not be the technical final time. Throughout one’s life, everywhere one will go will be like a bear-trap for our legs. We will struggle and struggle to escape from the test but it will not do any good. Our stamina being tested. Tested being stamina our? OR what.

Our legs are trapped, still, in the bear-trap. Who’s out there? one will shout to the air around oneself. There is a spirit entrapping us so that we cannot escape. Much like the modern day education system. Trapping our legs so that we cannot move. Not teaching us our well-needed skills to live. But teaching us our well-despised incompetences to die.

That is the definition of educationAn entrapping bear-trap, in which an individual’s legs will get suffocated until they are given the ultimatum, whether to pass, or whether to fail; whether to survive, or whether to die. 

And this is how children today are developed. They are “educated” to suit the government’s exacting standards. “Educated” is just synonymous for “ignorance”. Why? That’s my question for the government. Why are we, the twenty-first century’s “educatees” under this pressure to be one hundred times cleverer than our preceding generationOne thousand times cleverer than their preceding generation.

We are swamped with this insane amount of stress to be better than we possibly can be. People are rejected every day from their ideal university because they are “just not clever enough”. That is as awful an excuse to reject someone as saying that they “just do not have the correct hair colour”.

To this day I will not understand this. Children are not developing with the self-esteem, confidence, tranquility, etcetera, that they should. Instead, they develop thinking that their brain is too skinny and their feet are too large; their brain too detrimental and their feet too stuffed inside their mouth to prove that we are all intelligent.

But nobody will believe us, even if we could prove it. As much as teaching is an amazing profession to be involved in, everyone has been constructed to be completely and utterly “educated” with ignorance.

With any luck, this post would change Michael Gove’s obscenities. It would change the tests, it would change people’s views. But, let’s face it, that is about as likely as getting camembert back on the shelves after Brexit, or Donald Trump giving up his presidentship to be kind to women – or just being kind to women in general – or the world being reshaped from a large, disease-infested bollock into something that resembles the happiness that children today, and our crumbling generation, deserve.

Theresa May, if you read this, don’t bother pointing out any grammatical errors or expletives or opinions that you can inevitably respond with “BREXIT MEANS BREXIT”. I don’t need anymore reminding of my average-intelligent background.

*mocking roar of laughter intended*.

Thanks for reading!


How I Met You – the final part

I decided not to give you a new piece until I finished this story, which is why it has been so long. I apologise profusely!

But, it is only a short little ending, but it does indeed tie up this story into a gorgeous bow. And, I have no doubt in saying that, I am so glad I have told it.


You were the six footer, standing tall above me, weren’t you? I felt as though I should get platforms and a top hat to be in the same fight-class as you. I picked up a stick and aimed for your head to see if I could reach. But instead, it got your chest just proving my tininess. And you threw your stick over my head. If you think it like that, I won that round.

A friend of ours – a little smaller than you – witnessed the playful stick fight and I thought he was going to stop it. But instead, he took my stick, and then he took yours. He took us to the end of the silky green sea. I was paddling like a breathless puppy in the sea as you, you were swimming tall, weren’t you? You were quite able to swim faster than me. I tried to catch up but my arms just got tired, but finally we got to the place our friend wanted us.

My back turned to your back. My back touched your back. My head touched your back, while your head was high above. This friend was making the mock-fight a game in which, I’m sure, he wanted you to win. He was a boys-boy; looking after the men before the women. Do you remember that?

Do you remember the way he told us to step away from each other slowly? Do you remember the game in slow motion as we did this? Even though I was walking away from you all I could think was you; were you really going to throw a stick at me for this friend’s pleasure?

On the contrary, you threw it at me for your own pleasure. It landed in my hair when we were told to turn around and throw. That meant you could come to me and take it out of my hair and apologise. And that’s what you did.

The guy walked away with a piteous walk, as if he was mad at you for not battering me more. We were just talking, and you told me it was just an accident to begin with, and I felt like an idiot. And why didn’t you tell me before?

I’m glad you didn’t tell me before. Because this is how I met you. In a game that became my life. If we were to continue to throw sticks to this day, it’d be a pile over a million feet high. Each throw was another coin into our rich, rich relationship.

Rich of friendship to begin. Rich of infatuation to continue. Rich of adoration forever.

This moment, when I met you, will me engraved into my mind for as long as I can breathe. And if the world was going to implode, I cannot imagine you not being there beside me, saving me.


Love to the recipient of this piece. And for all who need it.


How I Met You – Part Two

I know that some people (will not mention names) have been dying to see the second part of the story I posted How I Met You. Yes, the story is still not finished, but I think that the slow release of each chapter brings that all inclusive holiday suspense to it.

Hope you enjoy! (Maybe, if you cannot remember, scroll back to June on the archives and find part one!)


Can you remember what was happening first? I can, it was a day in July just before we endeavoured in our GCSEs the following year, without a care in the world but the way we felt about animals and our friends. Why did we even care? It’s laughable, now, isn’t it, just? We were sitting parallel to each other, as if we were never going to meet, our lines would never cross. Thinking back about that, sadness swamps me like a wave machine that would not stop. How terrible, that at the time I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t notice that we were running parallel to one another, or that we might never meet. I didn’t notice that I was running parallel to multiple other people out of the group that surrounded me and you. I didn’t know that we wouldn’t speak, but I didn’t know that we would either, until we did.

A sharp object poked the back of my head a few moments after we sat down on the emerald sea. I stroked my hair to try and decipher what had hit my scalp. I was fearful that one of the infamous seagulls had planted itself on my head, or there was a tumour on the back of my brain trying to make me unconscious. I could not figure it out, so I turned. You were there. The curls of your hair just bobbed on top of your head, as though you had just woken up that way. God knew that you had; just naturally handsome.

In that second I was unfamiliar with your manner, as though you were hitting me in the head for a ‘laugh’. I thought it was purposeful – you throwing a stick at my head. I realised it was a stick after it was sitting in my shoe. I picked it up, examined it – do you remember? – and threw it back so that it would land in your curls. I got it there first time round. This, I now believe, was a fated act – I got the stick in your curls to signify that I was the first love.

It was bizarre how uncanny this felt to me; did you feel the same way? It is evident that there was going to be a match, as you picked up a bigger stick and threw it at me again. Game. On. I spat out of my mouth, as though I was six-foot-seven, when really I was just a petit little five-foot-zero.


I am leaving you in suspense. Enjoy.

To my boyfriend, wishing a happy two years!


has it only been a year

Can you believe that it has been exactly one year since the commencement of this blog. I’ve saved this date for about two weeks so that I can basically say, happy one year anniversary.

I think that is all that I was waiting to say, yet I’m sure I can find more words in my brain to talk about. Hm, let me think.

In my First Official Blog Post, I said that I wanted to spit my thoughts at you which, I feel I have done successfully? Maybe not a literal spit, but I feel as though I could spit if I wanted to…maybe this metaphor has gone a little too far. Don’t mind me, I’m just trying compose myself in a half-hearted manner.

Now, would there be any way better to commemorate the Paper Anniversary of the blog than with a story? Come on, gather round the fire place, under blankets in the cold January weather, and get ready for a love like no other read to you from a screen.


Two people, one year, one memory.

A love story is not only a cliché, not only a platitude, but it is realism. A realistic account of a couple together, for a year, where the Paper can be ripped in wait for the Tin at Ten, and for the China at Twenty.

It cannot be expressed enough that paper is just simply the shreds of a tree. You can write on paper, fold up paper, cut paper to make a beautiful snowflake. The one-year anniversary of your child’s first sight of snow. The one-year anniversary of when they began to walk, even if it was slow. And, most of all, the celebration is nigh, so that you can preach to the world, I feel like I can fly forever. If you last a year, you can last a lifetime – let this stand as a quote for the love story cliché of the year.

Two people walk down a street. Hand in hand. They are going back to where they met. Their first meeting was at a store, a clothes store for sure, where they were both looking for the same dress. Of course, the man was not shopping for himself – he was shopping for his girlfriend at the time, who was, in his words, just another white girl. He said this to his wife – although, she was just a stranger at the time – when she reached for the dress, as just another white girl. The man apologised, and apologised, and they really started to get along! But then, at that moment…his girlfriend came, coincidentally of course.

His girlfriend began to shout, shout to the heavens, as one would if enraged:

‘I can’t believe you would do this!’ said she, like she was caught in a cage. It was as though she was trying to struggle out between bars, but her head got so stuck she was not going anywhere for a while.

When she finally escaped, the old couple were over. But the new couple – the papery couple, now – were suddenly the clichéd, oversensitive, unglamorous couple that anyone could detect anywhere in the world.


And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my rendition of Why Love Stories Should Never Be Told. And, the reason why they should be trapped inside boxes is, and if you were reading really closely, you will find that no couple ever meets in an interesting way, and trying to make it interesting makes it become even more tedious.

Happy Paper, everybody. My blog and I met under the conditions that if I pay whatever-I-pay a month I can type these words that you read. That is the extent of our relationship agreement.

Good day!


Try not to Cry, but it’s only just beginning.

…and the world was just one, huge confusion.

I know that it has been a while, and I’m sure it is purely down to the fact that 2017 has dawned and life is just completely bemused about everything. Everything down to the last, minuscule blog post that happens to be forgotten about.

Here are some details that I think may be needed to be addressed for the commencement of 2017:

Donald Trump is going to begin leading the United States on January 20th. The office will get painted in fake tan, as his little-girl cheerleading minions will sing his praises as if he was the omnipotence of the world. His red tie and blue blazer will again be incongruous to his disgustingly bright blonde hair as he takes the chair in the White House. And if this is not enough – Donald Trump just simply being himself – the citizens of the United States of America will be persecuted for being themselves: the women will become Barbie dolls, the disabled will become talking wheelchairs, the Mexicans will all have scraped knees from trying to climb that wall that Trump so anxiously  wanted to build – the Mexicans will also have their money flowing from their pockets with each step up the wall, as, of course, they will be paying for their barricade.

And, apologies for being brief, but nothing else is going to happen this year due to Trump’s inevitable assassination of the world, where it will implode and explode at the same time – did anyone else think that was impossible? Well, we didn’t think Donald Trump would ever get elected, but we were wrong there.  If the world did not end in 2012, it is because it was just begging the population of the world to wait another five years so that Trump can end it for us.

Who else can wait thirteen miserable days for his seat in office? I know I will be sitting with a sea in between Trump and I, but I think – no, I know – I will be able to smell the stench of his freshly-applied fake tan on January 20th as he waltzes into the White House like one giant Cheese Puff.

The world was NOT designed for this kind of trauma. Did God not intend for the world to be beautiful with seas and skies and natural formations that did not make skin orange and hair yellow? Oh dear, did we believe that the world was supposed to be pleasant? I should’ve washed my hair of that view a long time ago so that I could be a source of unnatural chemicals being pumped into my body, nightly.

I know that Trump’s appearance is iconic. The hair, the skin, the fact that he darkens a room when he walks into it; but what right does he have to be the leader of a continent when he cannot even avoid looking like an Oompa Loompa? I cannot even begin to understand why more than 50% of the United States’ population thought that being led by an orange man would be a good thing?

Now, with a farewell to the disastrous 2016 – with the avoidance to be the cliché ‘I want a clean slate’ imbecile – I am delighted to welcome in the murky fog that January always brings, the lack of snow, and the fact that I am going to turn into a Barbie doll when Trump takes office in the unlucky number of THIRTEEN DAYS.

I have just recently bought my bleach, blonde hair dye, fake tan that TOWIE famously use, and a gorgeous red tie (or, as some people call it, a noose) for Trump’s glorious disaster. Have you claimed your essentials yet, for the next four years? Unlimited supplies, and everything? I forebode the next four years to either make the world a sea of mini Trumps, or we will watch from hell the Earth will just be smashed into smithereens on the floor of all flaws.

Happy New Year, you lucky, bound-to-become, Oompa Loompas.


The Core of the Earth: a Tree called Christmas

In the spirit of Christmas: it’s the most wonderful time of the year. However, this year we were redecorating our living room – the central, communal space that has not been refurbished since the year that we moved into the house, which was about ten years ago – so decorations were minimal, and it was even discussed not getting a Christmas tree. This motion was denied like Jesus was denied a comfy bed to be born in.

Despite this, it was a great Christmas. The tree sparkling with lights like you were looking up at the clear night sky.  I don’t need to describe to you what was beneath the tree,  because if you live in an environment that celebrates Christmas, the ideal is self-explanatory.

I don’t know if it helps to know, the story of Christmas, as I’m sure there are multiple stories of why Christmas exists and why we give presents, and why the people you are with is your family and friends rather than unacquainted animals, like fish or lions. There is the story of Jesus, which is the most conventional yet not the most believed, in my opinion – I think people more globally believe that Santa Claus really does come to town like Bruce Springsteen sings.

Do we give presents just to be nice, or is it because Jesus got given Gold, Frankincense, Myrrh, a Lamb, and undoubtedly the gift of being the most famous baby in the history of history, of history?

I am depicting Christmas like a madman, so I am going to stop before I perhaps discover that the world originated as a little, two-inch tall, Christmas tree and developed; reproduced little monkeys who turned into babies, who turned into adults, and then the human race developed from just a tiny little tree that curved into a sphere of land and sea, of green and blue, and that is where the history of the Christmas tree comes from.

Is that going to turn into a legitimate theory? If it did, if a theory that ridiculous would be believed, the world would be a very different place. Who’s Jesus? people would ask, where is our tree? they would ask, knowing and believing the story of the tree that I just made up on the spot.

What a lovely idea. The ideas in my head are just broken cogs trying to operate again. It hurts until I realise that I am wearing knee high elf socks made from wool and that fluffy material that no one really knows what it is but it is so soft that you don’t really care. They keep me warm on this December night.

Goodnight Christmas; Goodnight Christmasees; Goodnight to the little tree sitting in the core of creation. We will see you again in 365 days.

Santa Claus has left town. That is really upsetting.


Southern Fail: the biggest cliché of 2016.

How did we get here? I barely even knew what a ‘cancelled’ train looked like before 2016. It was the rarest occurrence; and I am bewildered at how preposterous the south coast has become in terms of transportation and mood.

I would understand the failure of a train to get to its station, or leave its departing point, if the railway tracks were sticking up into the air so that if a train attempted to drive across it, it would instead fly so high up into the sky that the train would literally be the cow that jumped over the moon. However, I hate to say that, in Southern Rail’s case, it is not the case.

Let me tell you a little story about an event that happened to me the other day:

I had just left college, after an extremely tough lesson of staring at a computer screen as if I could not look anywhere else. After leaving a quarter-of-an-hour early for a train that I had to get in order to get home with my legs still attached to my body, or my brain still functioning without electrodes attached to it. So I was walking, and walking, and walking to the train station where, my only railway line is Southern rail. Before 2016, I could hardly even acknowledge the brand of Southern rail, but now it is like a ringing in my head that will just not stop ringing! – the trains that will just not stop cancelling themselves.

So, I got to the train station with a nine-minute delay on my train. This, in comparison to the disasterous train fails that had befallen our tracks before, was a pleasant tragedy, even though when I left college seven minutes before this moment, it was on time.

Over the bridge I went to my side of the tracks – which is, as an unwritten rule, the wrong side of the tracks. It is always the side that suffers more. Going to Portsmouth Harbour, or Southampton Central, you are doomed until the dawn breaks – even then, by nine o’clock the following morning, you are once again doomed. Why do I have to live on this line?

I walked along the platform, past the other passengers who were just red with their imploding rage about Southern and their incompetencies. A few minutes passed, with my train getting delayed by one minute, each minute, an announcement sounded loud in my ears:

We are sorry to announce that, the 15.14 Southern service to, Portsmouth and Southsea has been cancelled, due to a shortage of train crew. 

Oh, the fury that entered my system. I looked around the platform, where I could physically see the furious lava spewing out of everybody’s ears. It burned.

Southern do not think about how their actions hurt their customers. I had to wait minutes on end to figure out a solution for how to get home, as no train would get me home into the warmth of my bed and the material of my pyjamas and the hot chocolate roasting my hands instead of the icy breeze I had to suffer through standing outside the train station.

I finally found a ride home. But it was another half-an-hour wait for this ride, due to the traffic bustling in the roads like a school of fish trying to swim through a piece of toffee – which was INEVITABLY caused by people being unable to ride the public transport that used to make people smile, but now I cannot imagine anyone smiling at the security cameras on the carriages; instead, they will be disabling the cameras so that they will light the train on fire and run away conviction-free.

I don’t know if that has ever happened.

Anyhow, the trouble that Southern rail has caused makes me nauseous. It has made the south coast corrupt. I am now referencing to the company as it. It does not have the right to a name anymore. They took our happy little hearts and tore them into tiny little hearts, and then were broken into broken hearts so that we can barely love or lust or like or feel luxury. It is for their own enjoyment; nothing but.

Does anyone know what the strikes are even for now? The conductors are unhappy, the drivers are unhappy, the passengers are unhappy, and the only person who is glowing with evil happiness is whoever manipulated the disgust that is Southern rail.

I feel completely and utterly exasperated with the failure of this year. We all need a new start in 2017 – which, I know is not going to happen due to the already planned strikes that are going to take place. Are these Southern’s New Year’s Resolutions? To make as many people miserable that they can inhumanly manage?

And on behalf of the rest of my peers who are feeling distressed about life in general:

Southern Rail, if you are going to die, please just do it. Stop being a half-hearted animal holding onto life when everyone knows you will die eventually. But unlike an animal, you have control over whether you die or whether you survive. Just please, PLEASE, just hurry up and decide. We are hungry for an ordered and peaceful world, and you are destroying our hearts and brains and psyches.

And, in the words of Tennessee Williams in A Streetcar Named Desire: ‘They told me to take a streetcar named Desire, and then transfer to one called Cemeteries…’ – Southern Rail, please either be Desire, with the positive connotations blooming our spirits, or Cemeteries, and crash and burn and let another company take over. Don’t be somewhere between life and death, positive and negative, as you will end up being sectioned for your own prophetic madness, like our dear friend Blanche that rode on Desire, then on Cemeteries; you do not want to end up like that. Or do you?

Bravo, bravo.


The Unbearable Pretence of Luck

I woke up one morning with a sudden realisation that my day did not start at half past six as a usual Thursday would. I woke up three hours later, with bed head as usual, but the sun was projecting itself through my curtains as if it was trying to tell me that the world was waking up.

No college. This excited me. Not due to disliking it, or disliking the people, or disdaining the studies, but because the sheer exhaustion dripping off of my body as if I had just been drowned in the ocean and resurrected. The fatigue was a wave of the ocean. In actuality, I still feel it now. Like the snow is falling like a pretty scene – the day off of college – but getting irritated about the snow postponing the walk I wanted to take – the fatigue. A single snowflake could fall and I would tread on it as if it were a spider or the loch-ness monster. Try to defeat the fatigue sprinkling itself on my shoulders.

A particular mood ransomed itself that morning, as I read the beautiful, The Picture of Dorian Gray by the one and only Oscar Wilde. The chapter I read was brutal (I will not specify the events just in case there is anyone who wants to read it, is currently reading but not where I am, or just hasn’t read it). This brutality, in short bursts of librettos in comparison to other chapters, was located in chapter thirteen.

Chapter eleven of the book, to me, seemed slightly pointless. Despite the beautiful words that Wilde used, the tiresome facts that it displayed seemed to have no relevance to the story. Maybe I will find out that it is relevant as I continue to the end. However, if this chapter had not been included, the brutality would have been chapter twelve. If there was an extra chapter inserted into the book as a build up to the bitterness, it would have been chapter fourteen. There must be something significant about this harshness being in chapter thirteen.

Thirteen: a supposedly unlucky number. A number to avoid. If you complete an exam in thirteen minutes, what are the chances of something bad happening to you afterwards? If you shut your eyes for the entire minute of thirteen while on the rowing machine, and you open your eyes before the minute is up, what are the chances of not collapsing into some bad luck after you finish your workout? If you finish chapter thirteen of The Picture of Dorian Gray and leave it there, what are the chances of that chapter being remembered throughout the next seven chapters? Very likely.

There is no logic in luck. There is no logic in the idea that stepping on a crack in the pavement will make you dissolve into a luckless puddle.

Tell me, is there logic in one stepping away from a mirror for two steps and then it falling on the ground, and one thinking, there goes the next seven years of my life; sweeping up pieces of glass and walking around on invisible shards, and stressing about the concept of not knowing where the bad luck is erupting from. Is there logic? Was it your fault that the hook that the mirror was attached to became so loose that it just let go? No. I suspect not, unless it was purposeful. Even if it was purposeful, your luck would not instantaneously condense into a major issue, and the world that you see is only full of people like you who have broken mirrors; people disappearing every second due to their seven years of bad luck coming to an end. You sigh at the thought of your seven years just beginning, as people come and go into the world of bad luck like a firework show before your eyes. And after your seven years, your firework would erupt.

The thirteenth chapter was brutal. It is illogical to think that leaving the book after reading thirteen chapters was unlucky. I do not believe in luck, like the breaking of a mirror giving you seven years of entrapment of bad luck, or having a lucky number, or four leaf clovers, but I cannot deny that the idea floats through my body like a wave of insolence, irritating my organs.

If I broke a mirror, I would be angry. I would be forever concerned that I did not pick up every piece of glass and I would stand on it one day and the shard shoot through my foot and right through my body. If the number thirteen came up, for example if I had to cook something for thirteen minutes, I would always cook it for fourteen just in case something had happened. In fact, I don’t think I would even eat it if it had to be cooked for thirteen minutes; I would disregard it as if it was a slab of meat already chewed up by a lion and spat back out onto my plate.

As a child I would always search the grass for a clover with four leaves. The extra leaf supposedly being a symbol of the luck that was induced in the world. But, it is quite clear by never finding a four leaf clover, and even if I had, the world would be no different. Nothing would change. The mirror would still break, and the food would still cook, and the four leaf clover would eventually become a three leaf clover, then a two, then a one, then a none. That isn’t the cycle of losing luck. If there is no luck to begin with, one cannot be planted into bad luck.

Luck does not exist. But the feeling of luck or the wishing of luck does. If you tell an actor to break a leg, they do not actually break their leg; if so, if the act of saying this was true they would break their leg every time. If every time someone was standing by a mirror, and you said to them, break a mirror!, the mirror would not break because of a wishing of luck. The mirror would break out of deliberate means, or accidental, but not a fate or destiny that would automatically send you to a institution for the clinically challenged wretches.

It does not happen that way. And for Dorian Gray, the idealism that Basil Hallward adored so greatly, the brutality was just a sentiment, not a burst of bad luck, but I wish you, Dorian Gray, all the luck for your future endeavours for the next seven chapters of the book.

But now in finishing the book, THIRTEEN days later, I know what has happened.

Rest in Peace, Oscar Wilde. 30.11.1900


It’s Down to You

My creative writing coursework is almost complete; and I simply cannot read it a single time more otherwise my brain will implode and my new eighteen-year-old self would be barely into existence before it even started.

The silence of this computer room is deafening. The mumbles under people’s breath and the sudden, monstrous laughs that distract my little body that has its coursework staring back at it as if it asking me, Why can’t you read me? and my answer is just nothing but silence staring through my pupils.

So instead, I have written a new piece to destroy my rut that I got stuck in, the clichéd writers block if you will, and it is probably nonsensical.


I’m sorry for anything that I have done, she said to you. Why? That is for you to say. She apologised with water painting her cheeks, with a tinge of pink that made you think that you were on the brink of madness. You, whoever you are, do not accept her apology. Why? Again, that is for you to say.

Who has done something wrong to you? A girl, as she was a she apologised. Think of that girl, of someone who perhaps lied to you or resented you and is apologising for that. The resentment rising when she woke up in the morning. The lies she told about your fidelity or your friendship. I don’t know who this girl is, whether she is a friend or a  girlfriend, but she may have somehow betrayed. But betrayed what? You? Your trust? Your commitment to one another?

The rambling begins as you said nothing to her after her apology. Nothing was to be said. The whites of your eyes turn bloodshot and deadly. You look annoyed and aggravated as if nothing she says will change it.

Change. Is that what you wanted? Change? Evidently, whatever she is saying sorry for, the lying or the infidelity or the idea that she accidentally used something of yours without asking, needs to change. But it is up to you whether you want to change it. I do not know why you would want her to keep lying to you, as that would defeat the object of lies: if you knew that she was lying, she would become a transparent monster in her own skin. If you wanted any adultery to continue, any love in your relationship was never true in the first place. But you may not mind them borrowing your things, but the question is, do they need to ask? Is the trust still there for her to take things that belong to you?

Like Othello, the handkerchief representing your love, and fidelity, may truly be lost. Desdemona may have lost her love for Othello, but maybe that was not of her own accord. The trust may have dissipated through the loss of the handkerchief. The handkerchief! (3,4,90-96). The begging for the love and fidelity to be returned.

But one knows that the tragedy of you (Othello) and your Desdemona will not reverse itself back into love. You will not be simply the hero; the tragic hero you are thus going to live as, and perish as.


Shakespeare was a crazy guy.